Right in Time
by White Lily of Wutai
Summary: In which Desmond's slow descent into insanity is only relative and directly related to how lost he can get in both his own head and worlds and times he can't even begin to comprehend. Warnings inside. I don't own anything but the plot. I'm just borrowing UbSoft's things.
1. Ezio

**I believe I told myself that _Right in Time_ would be a oneshot. I lied. I'll have one for Connor, too, probably. And Kenway and Arno. This comes before Altair, and will be inserted there, even though chronological order is kinda fucked up here. It makes me happy.**

**That being said, here's Ezio. **

**Word Count: 4,023**

**Warnings: Trans character, Canon divergence (in some places), Feels, Goddesses and their prophecies, Desmond slowly descending into insanity.**

* * *

**_Aquila_**

"_C'mon, Brother! Run with me!"_

The voice echoes through Desmond's head, childish and pure, a memory of a memory of a memory, so faint he can barely even feel it anymore.

"_Ezio, what did Mother say about this? You know how upset she will be when she finds out_."

Deep, familiar, _brother_, or something of the sort. Desmond can almost place it, but at the same time, he can't.

"_Please, Federico? I'll even make it a race! I beat you to the top, and you won't complain when I ask you to run with me."_

"_And if I beat you, sorellina?"_

"_If you beat me, then I'll… I'll… I'll wear a dress! Only at home, though."_

Desmond can see it: Ezio, standing awkwardly and uncomfortably, and Federico, smiling sadly at his little sister-brother-sibling.

_Federico nods, once, and they are off. Ezio is quick, limber, but he is small, and easily falls behind his older brother. He makes it to the top of the church only moments after Federico. With a resigned sigh, he flops against the terracotta tiles of the roof._

"_You win," he whispers mournfully, delicate but already calloused hands unconsciously tugging at the bandages he uses to bind his chest, deftly hidden beneath his tunic. Federico blinks down at his young sibling, understanding but not yet understanding. He knows that Ezio doesn't like dresses. He knows that Ezio doesn't like being 'she', being 'girl', being 'sorellina' or 'sister'. He does not understand- no one in the family does- but he knows._

"_I'll run with you anytime, fratellino," he says, just because he likes the way Ezio smiles._

Desmond opens his eyes, the glow of the rocks already hurting his eyes. Lucy, Rebecca, and Shaun are watching him closely, concerned, but he says nothing as he sits up. Shaun goes through the usual routine: what year is it? What's your name? How many fingers am I holding up? Do you remember what you were doing before you passed out? Desmond answers them all easily; the Bleeding Effect bothers him, but not like before. He knows who he is now, for the most part. He can separate between him and his ancestors, especially since most of the most recent episodes have involved Ezio and not Connor, the former's memories being older and less likely to be confusing or clouding.

Besides, he doesn't believe he will ever relate to Ezio like he relates to his other ancestors. Even Altair, as far back and away as he lived, seems closer than the Italian sometimes. Desmond lives in a modern age of considerably more understanding, but Ezio's predicament still baffles him sometimes- and yet, at the same time, it doesn't. Perhaps it is because he has lived it that he understands, even when he doesn't.

_Just like Federico_, he thinks, sipping on the cup of hot cocoa that he is certain Ezio was never able to experience.

…

Dreaming, Desmond thinks, is much like the Bleeding Effect: he only dreams of either the Ones That Came Before or of his ancestors' memories these days, after all. Unlike the Bleeding Effect, however, dreaming always seems more… pure, as though he is walking alongside the person of interest rather than existing _as_ the person of interest.

Desmond watches a seventeen year old Ezio scale the wall of a shop quickly. He is bleeding from the lip, from a wound that Desmond knows will scar into one similar to his own. He watches as the Italian easily loses his pursuers-

Only to run straight into his older brother.

"_Fratellino, where have you- oh." Federico reaches out to touch Ezio's face where the injury has cut across the boy's lips, but stops when he realizes how much pain that will cause. "What happened this time?" he demands, though he already has an inkling. Ezio smiles awkwardly, not even wincing as it pulls painfully at his injury. _

"_Just an accident, Fratello, I promise. He didn't mean to hit me. At least, I don't think he did," Ezio babbles, because his brother has the look of someone who wishes to strangle something and Ezio isn't sure if that something is him or de'Pazzi._

"_We are going to see this boy, and we are going to pay him back two-fold," Federico growls._

_Vieri de'Pazzi it is._

_Ezio sits obediently but fidgety under il dottore's hands. The wound across his lip doesn't even hurt, though the man behind the mask and thick leather warns him that it will leave a scar. "Good," Ezio says. "I will seem more a man for it." Federico sighs, because he is the older of the two and he is supposed to, but Ezio can see the beginings of a smile tugging at his fratello's lips. The walk back to the house is filled with laughter and smiles, until Ezio spots the tower of the church._

"_Hey, Federico?" he says, gesturing to the highpoint. "Race me?"_

_He doesn't think he's ever seen Federico look so… mischievous._

_It's a hard climb, just like it was last time, but Ezio is bigger now, older and stronger, and this time he makes it to the top before his brother does, with enough time to even help the older over the ledge. They sit together on the edge of the roof, looking out over the city._

"_Do you remember the last time we raced up here?" Ezio asks, because he does and he wonders if his brother does as well._

"_I promised I'd run with you anytime," Federico responds, because he remembers to. He remembers how young Ezio looked back then, especially compared to how much older he looks now. There is still the edge of softness to his younger brother that will always remind him of what how hard the boy has worked to get this far, but it lessens with every passing day. With every passing day, Federico stops seeing so much of his sister and sees more of Ezio. He closes his eyes._

_It's a nice thought._

Desmond opens his eyes slowly, reveling in the feeling of slowly sinking back into himself. Shaun gives him an odd look, but Desmond pays it no mind. He spends most of his days as Connor and most of his nights as Ezio or even, on occasion, Altair. He will treasure these few moments when he is Desmond, American fuck-up and humanity's last chance.

"Are you coming?" Shaun asks, standing in the doorway with Desmond's cup of coffee- something Desmond won't drink because he knows Ezio never liked the stuff either.

"Of course," he says.

It takes a moment for him to realize that he'd responded in Italian.

_Meeting Leonardo had really been a major point in Ezio's life. Before the artist, he had never really had anyone to truly be intrigued by what he was: before, either they accepted or they rejected. Leonardo… he accepted what Ezio was, really, but he was always questioning._

_It makes Ezio smile. _

_Ezio finds himself slipping out to see Leonardo more than Cristina, eventually even more. He sneaks in through the window, plopping down on the artist's crates until he is either noticed or gets Leo's attention. After, they will talk for hours, until the sun begins to rise or Leo shoos Ezio away. _

_Something about their secret meetings makes Ezio feel… lighter. _

_In the hours before he is to leave the city to his uncle's, Ezio finds himself sneaking into Leo's window. He knows he should be helping his mother and sister pack, but he can't leave without saying goodbye. He all but falls into Leo's arms, fighting back his tears as he tells the artist that this may be the last time they speak for a while. "Ever, really," he admits into the front of Leonardo's tunic, because he can't even bring himself to meet the artist's eyes. Leo huffs, but it is not a sad thing- it's almost a laugh, really._

"_I'm sure you'll be fine, mia Aquila. Fly. It would be wrong of me to be the one to keep you cooped up here."_

"_I would be cooped here, if I could," Ezio murmurs, because he would. If there were any other choice, he wouldn't leave. He wouldn't leave his family home, he wouldn't leave his only friend. But he doesn't have a choice._

_He leaves Leonardo with a hug that makes the artist's ribs creak. Leo leaves him with a gentle brush of a kiss to the forehead. "For luck," Leo explains, before shooing him off with wishes of good luck._

_Ezio fights back tears as he goes. He knows that Leo does too._

Leo is very much Shaun's opposite, Desmond thinks, staring at the way the light emanating from the rocks shifts about. Where Leonardo was always soft and warm, Shaun is always cold and sharp. And yet, the two of them support just the same- though careful hugs and well-placed words.

He finds himself confusing one for the other more and more often.

_Mario is a harsh teacher. Ezio learns it through experience. He trains his uncle every afternoon without fail. It's a hard thing; Ezio is tired often than not when the training starts, and he finds himself even more exhausted when the training ends. Not just physically- though that was a large part of it- but emotionally as well._

"_If you're going to act like a boy, learn to hit like one!" Mario shouts, trying to sweep Ezio's legs out from under him, and the younger uses excess momentum to vault over his uncle. He lands and spins…_

_But too quickly. He feels the slightest of snaps in his ankle as he stumbles back from Mario's attack, the pain of it making his face screw up in concentration as he tries to stay upright. Mario stops almost immediately, dropping his blade to slide an arm around Ezio's waist, supporting him._

"_I'm sorry, Niece, I should not have-"_

"_I am fine," Ezio snarls. He is not a woman! He will not be coddled! He pushes away from his uncle- a mistake, because his ankle gives out beneath his weight and sends him to the ground. Mario is by his side in moments, but Ezio still lashes out. "I'm fine!" he insists, curling in around himself as he tries to get himself under control. His ribs strain against his bindings, and he knows he must breathe lightly before he hurts himself that way as well. "I'm fine…"_

_Mario runs his fingers through Ezio's hair, soothing the younger. He can see the conflict on Ezio's face, the war between relaxing under her uncle's hands or remaining tense. "I should not have pushed you so hard."_

"_You didn't push me too hard, Uncle," Ezio says dejectedly, pushing him away as he sits up. "I made the mistake, and I've paid the price for it." _

"_I should have known," Mario presses on, "You're not going to be as strong as a man is, and I should have-"_

"_I am a man, Uncle!" Ezio all but yells. Mario flinches. He has never heard Ezio so… angry before. "I am a man." Ezio's voice comes out as a whimper as she pulls at her hair. Mario runs a hand up his… his __**nephew's**__ back, rubbing circles between the __**boy's**__ shoulders._

"_Of course you are, Ezio," Mario whispers. "I'm sorry."_

Desmond stares up at the sky. The dirt is warm against his back, kind of wet, but he doesn't feel like getting up. The breeze is nice, especially after being cooped up in the cave for so long.

"C'mon, Desmond. Get up." Shaun's voice is sharp and Desmond almost closes his eyes and ignores him. Almost. "I'm serious, Desmond. Up and back inside, before I have to drag you in like a dog." He toes at Desmond's side, and Desmond unconsciously flinches away.

"Watch it, Mario. My ribs are under enough strain as it is."

"I'm not Mario, Desmond."

Desmond's eyes shoot open in surprise, and he lets out a little noise of confusion, flailing as he sits up. Shaun is giving him a pitying look, and Desmond immediately feels guilty and more than a little bit stupid. With a shrug, Shaun is his usual, sharp self.

"Let's go inside."

_Ezio was, by far, the oddest person Rosa had ever met. _

_He was very much like every other man Rosa had ever met, all cocky and confident and savvy, but he was also… gentle, understanding, caring. Warm, almost, though Rosa wasn't certain an assassin should ever be called that._

_He also asks the most infuriating, well-worded questions that Rosa cannot form excuses not to answer. He sits patiently as Rosa forms her answers, listen's closely as though her words are the most interesting things in the world even though she knows that they aren't, they really aren't. She isn't near as articulate as that artist that Ezio seems to cling to. And yet, Ezio treats her words as though they hold just as much weight. _

_Rosa wonders what his game is, because there's no way he isn't playing one. Or, trying to; she refuses to make it easy for him. And it almost becomes a game of sorts between them; he will ask a question she does not wish to answer and she will answer it, only to turn around and ask him a question he does not wish to answer. If she cannot answer his question, or he cannot answer hers, then whoever asked the question will ask a different, less invasive one. _

_Ezio seems to find the game delightful. Rosa has to admit that she is warming up to it as well. For one, Ezio actually follows the rules of the game: they established a pretty much at the beginning that avoiding the question was just as bad as not answering. Rosa can really remember only one time Ezio really broke the rules, and truly she cannot blame him for that one, especially knowing what she knows now._

"_Why do you bandage your chest? Are you injured?" _

_Ezio flinches at the question, Rosa notes. He smiles softly, almost hesitantly._

"_You could say that," he says, clearly diverting, before immediately asking her where she learned to climb._

_Rosa realizes he doesn't want her to press the issue. She doesn't. Instead, she launches into her story with abandon, just because she likes the cheerful, thankful smile Ezio gives her._

The Animus beeps as Desmond surfaces again. He surfaces like he wakes- slowly, groggily, and with a hell of a lot of confusion. Lucy tells him to get some rest, but Desmond waves it off.

"I'm fine. I think I can go for a few more hours."

"Oh, I don't think so," Shaun snaps, bustling Desmond out of the Animus seat. "Anymore, and I'm not going to be able to deal with you."

"I swear, Leo, I'm perfectly fine. You can stop worrying about me."

Everyone is silent for a moment as they stare at Desmond. He rubs his forehead, oblivious, until he finally notices their stillness.

"I did it again, didn't I?" Desmond whispers. Shaun nods tightly, helping him out of the seat.

Desmond tries not to say anything else for the rest of the night.

"_Do you love me, Ezio, or Leonardo?!"_

_It is not Rosa's outburst but Rosa's words that give Ezio pause- perhaps, because he has never really thought about it before. Now that he does, he finds that there is no real answer to that question. He loves them both, in different ways but in the same. He cannot choose one or the other. It would tear him apart._

"_But it cannot keep going like this, Rosa insists when Ezio tells her this. "I cannot be the one to love you in the day, but love you by far by night. I cannot, Ezio."_

"_And I would not ask you to if I could choose, Rosa, amore," Ezio says honestly, cupping Rosa's face in both delicate hands. "But I cannot choose between the two of you. I am an incredibly selfish man, Rosa, wanting the both of you."_

"_You have always been selfish," Rosa muses softly, her own hand going to brush Ezio's cheek, still so smooth even though a scar now traces up Ezio's jaw. "But I am not so generous." Ezio smiles softly, placing a kiss to each of her temples._

_It will have been the last time they met as lovers._

Desmond is less and less himself these days. It takes him a while sometimes, to remember where and when and who he is.

It gets to the point even icecream doesn't help.

"_This is the last piece of the Codex, isn't it?" Leo asks, his pen hovering over the paper. He doesn't turn to face Ezio- his eyes are completely focused on the drop of black welling at the metal nib._

"_How do you figure?" Ezio rebukes in the kind of way that Leo recognizes as diverting. He chuckles._

"_I may not have the best memory at times, and you may not have brought these to me in order, but I can tell. Whoever wrote these, whoever this 'Altair' is, he sounds almost… resigned in this. As though it will be his last." Leonardo's tone, which started happy and matter-of-fact, ends almost sad. He still doesn't lift his eyes from the paper. There's only about a paragraph left. He almost doesn't want to know how the story ends._

"_You're right," Ezio whispers. "That's the last one. What I learn from it will determine where I go next. A contract through the ages." Ezio's voice sounds almost nostalgic, and Leo feels his heart clench._

_Ezio is going to try to go where he can't reach again. The Eagle will soar again, and Leo, on his clipped wings, won't be able to follow. He doesn't think he can bear it, watching Ezio go and, for the second time, not being sure if he will ever return. Leo trusts that Ezio will return from every contract (maybe not always in one piece). It's when he talks about leaving that Leonardo gets nervous, scared._

_But this time, he is not prepared to let Ezio go._

"_I'm going with you," Leonardo decides, slamming his pen down and turning in his seat to face Ezio. The assassiano blinks a few times in confusion, and Leo speaks before he can find his words. "At least to Monteriggioni. I'm sure Rosa will insist the same."_

"_Rosa will not be coming. Neither will you, if I had it my way, but Rosa will certainly not be coming."_

_Leo pauses, then moves to kneel by Ezio's side. "Did something happen?"_

"_It is nothing to be concerned about, mi amor," Ezio assures, half-smiling. "It was… a long time coming." Leo shakes his head, pressing a kiss to Ezio's forehead._

"_Well, you will not lose me so easily, mia Aquila," Leonardo promises. "Allow me a few moments to gather my things. You will not receive the rest of that Codex until we are both safely to Monteriggioni."_

The endgame is coming. Desmond can feel it in his bones. The last power source is secure; now, all that's left is to wait for Juno or Minerva to say it's time. The waiting makes his guts churn. He wonders when it will happen.

He wonders what will happen when it comes.

_There are more assassins than Leo originally assumes. La Volpe (the thief seems nervous, and that immediately makes Leonardo nervous) and Antonio Maffei and Paola and Niccolo Machiavelli and Mario and a nameless boy who smiles eerily from the shadows and Leo is certain everyone can see but no one mentions nor speaks to all greet him and Ezio when they pass through the gates. Leonardo finally notices the symbol of the assassins in sharp relief against the stone. He wonders why he did not notice in previous visits. _

_Ezio passes all of them, immediately leading Leo to the upper floors. He talks while he walks, and Leo listens, to his descriptions and stories and anecdotes, until they reach a single room at the end of the hallway on the uppermost floor._

"_A workshop," Ezio explains, fiddling with the mechanism locking the door. "Mario never uses it, so it remains empty. I'm sure you will put it to the best use."_

_It certainly is a spacious workshop. There's more room in the one room than all of Leo's previous housings, and all the tools he will need. A bit dusty, of course, but Leo wasn't expecting otherwise._

"_Thank you, Ezio," he says honestly, admiring the room as he steps into it, watching idly how the dust moats swirl before making his way to the desk and setting down his things. He quickly pens the last paragraph of the Codex under Ezio's watchful eyes._

"_Why don't you get acquainted with the rest of my family?" Ezio suggests, holding the Codex page gingerly in his grip. "I will be there for dinner, I promise, but there are things about to happen that I do not want you to see." Leo nods in understanding, following Ezio as far as the second floor before they part._

_The artist leaves Ezio with a kiss that he, for the first time, does not even try to hide. La Volpe's chuckling from a floor down startles them both apart, though the movement is more out of courtesy than embarrassment. _

"_Come, Ezio," the Fox says, a smile still on his face. "It's time."_

Desmond can feel the static in the air. They don't have much time left. He wishes Juno and Minerva would get done arguing already.

He starts to notice Minerva's voice getting weaker and weaker.

"_You are the Prophet, Ezio!" Minerva insists. Ezio still does not understand. Even if he were uninjured and in his right mind, he is still not certain he would understand the strange, glowing woman. "Altair was the Messiah, and Connor will be the Herald, but you are important in a way the other two will not, just as they were and will be important as you are not."_

_Her words confound Ezio and yet, he knows there is truth in them. _

"_You are the Prophet of days to come, when humanity lives in a world of advanced power and connection, when the Sun threatens all those you will leave here on Earth. Desmond will be the Lamb, the Savior, the Traveler. He will enter the temple of the lost and will save us. You must tell of his coming, but only to those who will understand his prophecy."_

"_Who is Desmond?" Ezio gasps out, voice embarrassingly feminine. He can't remember the last time he's sounded like that. He hopes for an answer; he has so many questions and so few answers._

_But Minerva is already fading, and so is Ezio's sight._

Desmond sees them now, all of his ancestors, garbed in white, all together. They're a family, all crowded together, and they part for Desmond like water as he passes between them. At the end of the path they create are the only three Desmond really recognizes. He realizes now, why Altair and Ezio and Connor were chosen to be the stepping-stones to this place. Altair's arm is thrown over Connor's shoulder, his other hand flicking Ezio in the middle of the forehead playfully; they are brothers, truly, and Desmond longs to join them. All three turn to Desmond at the same time.

Altair offers the youngest his hand, beckoning him to join them. Desmond glances back, where Shaun and Becca and his dad once were, then turns back to Altair. He doesn't hesitate again to take the ancient assassin's hand.

Desmond wakes in the darkness of the Temple of Solomon, Minerva standing above him. She whisper words, ones that Desmond shouldn't know the meaning to but does. It's a nice language, a warm feeling; She's proud of him.

_Live, my Child, for you are the Lamb, the Savior, the Traveler._

It's Her voice that lulls Desmond back to sleep, in the darkness of the Temple of Solomon, with only the golden light of the runes inscribed on the walls as company.


	2. Altair

**One part of my Camp NaNoWriMo April 2015 challenge, here's a little timetraveling-Desmond-I-can't-deal-with-the-end-of-Assassin's-Creed-3 piece. I was also playing around with writing styles in this one, so my apologies if it's a bit inconsistent.**

**Word count: 8,527**

**Pairings: None.**

**Warnings: Canon divergence, canon-typical violence, emotional damage, panic attack.**

**Update: Just some minor edits and additions here and there. Nothing big.**

* * *

_**Brotherhood**_

The sun is hot, burning over Jerusalem, but it is cool beneath the ground. The Temple of Solomon is quiet, filled with secrets lurking in the shadows, and Altair walks its hallways fearlessly. He has been here many times since had been demoted. He finds no peace in these shadows, but with every step he took he found knowledge. It was idle knowledge, but it was knowledge none the less. It fills the empty spaces in his mind, spaces that would otherwise be filled with doubt and hatred towards himself. It tells him secrets, pieces of a whole that he cannot yet string together, but he finds himself understanding more, instead of just storing it.

Altair cannot yet pass the cave-in, beyond which he knows lies the grounds of his greatest failure, but he gets the distinct feeling that the pieces he is missing lie there. He does not know if he will ever be able to step there, even should the stone and dirt be removed.

Instead, he explores the parts of the tunnels that he did not in his previous visits. There are so many places that have not been touched for decades- some that he finds, in centuries. Even the ground is layered thickly with dust, muffling his steps and swirling around him in clouds so thick that he has learned to wear a mask to keep it out of his nose and mouth. He needs no light in these tunnels; the runes glow gold in his Eagle Vision, softly, but insistently, as though they are pleading to spill their secrets even though Altair may not always be able to comprehend them.

But this tunnel is different. The runes still glow gold, but in a different way. They push and pull him, drawing him deeper into the darkness. It's not long before the runes fade out, leaving only a single, brilliantly-glowing gold light at the end.

It's a boy.

He looks similar to Altair, but he is not the same; they might have been brothers, if Altair was not so certain his Father was not "Father" to anyone else. Not anymore. But this boy… He has the slightest of Armenian features, accents to features foreign but strangely familiar. He is curled up on the stone, at the base of an altar, what can only be a Piece of Eden in his arms, held tight against his chest. He is dressed in robes too loose, undone at the waist and pooling around him like abstract wings. And all of it _glows_, like staring at the sun with a silhouette of the boy in the center.

It's all so odd, and Altair doesn't quite know what to think of it all.

But he cannot leave the boy. So he moves forward to gently collect him in his arms. The boy curls tighter around the Piece of Eden, but does not wake. He is… strangely light, weight that takes no effort to carry.

When Altair turns around, She is standing there, in all of Her golden glory. A Goddess in the flesh, eyes of gems and robes of liquid metal. Her delicate hands frame the boy's face, hovering inches away from sun-touched skin. Her lips curl into a smile and She whispers a Word, one that Altair should not know the meaning to, but he does.

_Precious._

Malik has a million questions on his tongue when Altair arrives to the Jerusalem Bureau with a boy in his arms. Unsurprisingly, how he managed to get here while carrying a person is not one of them. Altair is strong, quick, silent, a ghost of a shadow when he wishes to be; it's the blessings of Allah, really, or maybe the blessings of one of the Old Gods Altair holds so dear in his whispered prayers. The problem is simply that he does not always wish to be blessed.

But that is not one of the questions on Malik's tongue, and he understands the importance of acting before asking. He orders Altair to stay as he shoos the other two Journeymen out of the garden; Ari is already dressed in full robes, his hood down and his eyes on the ground, but Threm is still struggling with his outer robe. Malik shoos them both out without a care. As soon as they are gone, he beckons Altair into the garden so that he can have a proper look at the boy.

He is not injured. That is the first thing Malik deduces. There is not a scratch on the boy's body, actually. There are scars, and an intricate tribal tattoo of a face on his upper arm with the mark of an assassin neatly hidden within, but there are no injuries. And still he slumbered, still curled around what could only be a Piece of Eden.

Malik says that the boy should be taken to Masyaf, the Piece of Eden with him.

Altair insists they wait until he wakes; Masyaf has too many people, and if the boy wakes disoriented it may become a problem.

Malik reminds Altair non-too-gently that the boy is carrying something similar to the very thing Altair failed to obtain for the Grandmaster.

Altair suggests they send word by bird, but wait until the boy wakes _here_ before beginning the half-a-day hard ride to the mountain fortress. They find an impasse in that, and Malik goes off to write the message and attach it to one of the carrier birds. Not the pigeons- he wants the message delivered quickly, and the reply to arrive even sooner. No. Instead, Malik wrestles one of the shadowed hawks, attaching the message to its leg before sending it on its way to Masyaf.

He returns to find that Altair has allowed the boy to continue his rest on the pillows in the garden, and that Altair himself is all but dozing against the wall of the garden. Malik takes a minute to take in the similarities between the two: they could be brothers, if Malik didn't know any better, with the same sharp nose and short black hair and features half Armenian, though the other half is different for both of them. Even the scar crossing Altair's lips is mirrored onto the boy. There were subtle differences, a slightly off shade of skin tone being one of them, but they were so similar…

And yet, Malik swore he could see some of Kadar in the strange boy. It was in the face, the way his brow furrowed and his lips parted slightly as he slumbered. Something about the resemblance both rubbed Malik the wrong way and awoke a deep-seated, protective instinct in him.

Shaking the strange feeling off, Malik sat on the ground in front of Altair, shook the novice's shoulder, and asked all that Altair had learned in the Temple and about the boy before Altair himself forgot.

His name is Desmond.

He speaks easily, both English and Arabic, the words flowing off his tongue with an accent that Altair is neither familiar nor comfortable with. He isn't nearly as confused about his situation as Altair expects him to be; he admits that he thought he was dead for the few moments he was awake in the Temple, but he can't tell what he should think about this. Malik watches him closely, and Altair cannot tell if the Dai is searching for injuries or searching for weapons.

"You are young," Malik points out, and Desmond laughs.

"Twenty-two," he says, smile still on his face. It is not a happy smile, though. It's more… uneasy, but hidden under faux confidence. Altair can see the way the boy's hand kneads the ground beside his hip, discretely, but in a way that Altair recognizes as a nervous tick all assassins share; the constant presence of a hidden blade is a comfort to all who own one, and one will often flex the hand they usually keep the hidden blade on. But Altair can see no missing fingers, no usual sign of an assassin beyond the swirling black tattoo that seems to shift every time he looks away.

"You are not a civilian," Malik states dryly, and Desmond does nothing to deny it. His lip is quirked into a half-smile, stretching the scar that mirrors Altair's own. The Eagle wonders how the Eaglet might have earned such a mark. Altair still remembers how he earned his own, one of the many scars he remembers the story behind- and he remembers how he paid Abbas back for it. He wonders if Desmond ever got the same chance.

"You're right," Desmond admits, though there is no pride in his voice that Altair has grown to associate with young Master Assassins. "I'm not a civilian. I was trained in a… Oh, damnation, what's the word…?" His face screws up in confusion as he searches for the word in Arabic before he finally switches to English. "Compound. I was trained in the Compound, with all the other assassins, until I left."

Altair has to notice that he speaks oddly eloquently, even in English, and he has to wonder what this "Compound" has taught their students.

"And this… 'Compound'," Malik's mouth twists around the word, and Altair can tell it is not an English word he uses often. "It is of the Brotherhood, yes?"

"It's of the _Creed_," Desmond says, putting a kind of stress on the difference between _Creed_ and _Brotherhood_, and Altair and Malik both catch on immediately.

There were not just men training in the "Compound".

Altair can see the contempt curling at Malik's lip, but he does not hold the same view of the concept. He remembers Ari, the way the boy had to learn to walk, the bandages that threaten his life that he must wear until he and Altair puzzle out a way to bind safely; the way that Ari is a warrior at heart and a man in his soul, but his mortal vessel could get him killed if he were ever found out (It would be a shame, because he works so well with Threm, and Threm would be _devastated)_. Altair remembers the woman with brilliant green eyes and hair as dark as ebony and skin yellowed like old paper, and the way she saved Altair from the guards, showed him the paths over the city that only the Birds knew and showing him a style of fighting that very few would ever learn.

No, Altair holds no hatred for the idea of women in the Order, and he prays that Malik holds his tongue on the subject as well.

Desmond does not seem to notice the way the concept puts the other two men on edge- or, if he does, he does an excellent job of hiding it. He looks around the garden like a curious cat, trying to take in everything at once, and somehow Altair doesn't doubt that the boy is able to. There's a certain intelligence in those rich brown eyes, something of a spark that's buried beneath ever-careful training.

And then those eyes meet Altair's, and he swears he sees them flash gold for the slightest of moments.

…

Desmond is welcomed to Masyaf with suspicion and doubt. The others eye him warily, eyes scanning his simple brown robes and slinking walk that speaks of training he cannot possibly have, but does. They are uncertain, and their uncertainty breeds fear and anger. Altair can already see the heat in some eyes, the rage, the anxiety.

They watch him like cats watch a hawk, wondering if they can take the great bird, or if they will be taken by it.

The Grandmaster greets Desmond with cold indifference. The name rolls of Al Mualim's tongue easier than it does Altair's.

"Desmond. Brother of Brother. Welcome."

The way Desmond looks at Al Mualim is almost _insolent_. Words in Arabic roll of his tongue sharply.

"Rashid ad-Din Sinan," he greets, and Altair hears the gasps of ever assassin in the hall, sans himself and the Grandmaster, because how many years has it been since anyone has heard the Grandmaster be addressed by his name and not his title. Desmond does not even _bow_; he faces Al Mualim as an equal, and Altair can see why the Gods have picked this one. "I thank you for your warm reception, as I have not been called Brother of Brother for too long." Altair can tell that Desmond is speaking formally on purpose. The boy never speaks so formally with him. The words sound rehearsed, as though he has been taught them, but the next words, Altair can tell, are entirely Desmond's own:

"I apologize for what you might have been lead to believe, but the Apple's not gonna work for you."

Desmond balances the Piece of Eden in one hand, holding it between himself and Al Mualim, and Altair can see the hunger in his mentor's eyes, the anger at being dismissed so readily. Desmond can see it too, by the way the corner of his mouth curls into a smirk.

"But you are welcome to try," he says casually, _tossing_ the Piece towards the Grandmaster. "Tell me how it goes, huh?"

Altair cannot tell if his mentor wishes to applaud the boy's confidence or strike the boy down for his disrespect. Altair is not entirely sure which he wants to do either. Both master and apprentice watch as Desmond switches to what Altair is beginning to call "idle mode"; he begins to wander a bit, poking at things that catch his interest. The other assassins watch from below with confusion, because when was the last time they saw anyone so quickly put the Grandmaster from their mind, or show him their back?

The Grandmaster begins to laugh, and Altair releases a breath he didn't realize he was holding. The elder tells Desmond that he is welcome to complete his training in Masyaf, from wherever he may have left off where he is from. Desmond smiles but does not bow as he admits that he had one true assignment left before he took his first Leap as a Master.

It does not surprise Altair that the Grandmaster immediately assigns Desmond to Jerusalem. Altair can see the way Al Mualim watches the boy, like something filthy, or perhaps something dangerous, and the elder wants it gone as soon as possible without dipping his hands into it.

Altair gets the feeling that Desmond will not die so easily. Malik did not. Desmond will not.

Desmond is fitted with the grey robes of a novice, and Altair has to admit that the boy looks almost _natural_ in them, as though he has been a brother all his life. The other novices eye him warily, and the other Journeymen watch him with mixes of contempt and awe- contempt at his foreign heritage, awe at his confidence and bravado. Altair hopes that they do not act out because of it.

Altair follows Desmond as he goes to get fitted for weapons. Rauf greets the boy readily enough- he has always been a warm man, even when he was a novice, until he isn't. Desmond is easy in the Mentor's presence, ready to pick up the weapons of the trade and learn how the assassins of Masyaf fight. Rauf hands off a simple, curved blade and a stack of throwing knives before all but dragging Desmond to the rink to ensure he knows how to use said weapons. The boy is… hesitant? Or scared. Altair doesn't believe the latter, but it is not impossible.

But Desmond can actually hold his own, surprisingly. There is no awkwardness in his movements that Altair has come to expect from Journeymen still learning their style. It's a choppy style, to be fair, but it is well-practiced and well-honed and incredibly defensive, if the slightest bit rusty. Rauf had no trouble defending from Desmond's attempted strikes, but he also had difficulty landing his own. Rauf is use to a dual-sword style, flowing easily even with a one-handed weapon. But Altair can see that Desmond is use to using a single blade with some kind of parrying weapon in his other hand; Altair can see him twitch to parry with his off-hand before he catches himself and stops before he accidentally puts his hand into the way of danger.

He is lucky he is wearing braces when he does. The Mentor's blade skirts off the leather, leaving a harsh, lighter-colored scrape across the polished, hardened surface, and Altair flinches. Desmond yelps, but does not falter. He just shakes the pain off and presses forward until he has Rauf backed into guard.

Altair finds himself having a growing respect for the boy. He can see that Rauf is thinking the same. The Mentor calls the spar to end, and Desmond nearly automatically drops the stiff stance he'd had the entire spar that Altair only now noticed the boy had taken. Rauf easily draws Desmond into a one-armed hug, smiling as he praises the boy's technique and starts giving pointers on how to improve. Altair smiles as he watched them. Desmond looks as though he belongs.

The boy will be fine, Altair decides.

…

Desmond's hands are rough, calloused, easily gripping stone and plaster and wood as he scales the side of the castle behind Altair. It's an odd feeling, the raw stone beneath his fingers that's not concrete or brick or the plastic-and-wood framing of windows. The castle at Masyaf is old, not is disrepair but covered in niches and handholds. It's not hard climbing by any means, meant to be used to teach Novices the art of it.

It's only natural that Altair would start Desmond here, to test his skills before throwing him against anything more difficult. This happens to be just as much practice for Desmond as it is a chance to satiate Desmond's burning curiosity. He's only ever seen Masyaf through Altair's eyes and from old, crinkled maps from that- this- period. To be able to experience it first-hand is a great honor, and Desmond wants to see as much as he is allowed. They leave at dawn for Jerusalem, after all; this would be Desmond's last chance to explore the fortress city for a few weeks at least.

Pulling himself over the final ledge, Desmond huffs tiredly as he flops back against the still-sun-warmed stone of the fortress's shortest tower. He can't remember the last time he'd pushed himself so hard in a single day; between the long ride to Masyaf, facing down Al Mualim, the spar with Rauf, and now this climb, Desmond is positively _exhausted_.

It's a glorious feeling. A million memories in the Animus could never even begin to compare to the comfortable burn, the _ache_ in Desmond's muscles, the feel of warm stone at his back and night-cooled air around him, the look of the sky, magnificently clear and sparkling with billions of lights.

Desmond almost wishes he belongs here. Here, in this time and in this place, with these Brothers who would welcome him with almost-open arms and a castle he knew would listen to all his secrets and hold them in the very stone until the day t fell, as it did for all others who passed between its walls. The whole place glows slightly gold in the Eagle Vision, as if a target or a goal that Desmond never realized he had, as though it were trying to draw him in like a siren would a sailor. It wants him to belong, just as much as he wants to…

… But Desmond knows that he cannot. Because Rebecca is probably worried sick and Shaun is probably waiting on the edge of his seat for the American to get back to the future. He wonders, morbidly, if he will ever see them again. He prays he will, because they're the only friends he's ever known, as much family as they were guardians and comrades.

It takes Altair's shadow falling over him for Desmond to realize the older assassin (at least, Desmond assumes Altair is older) is waiting for him to catch his breath. "Come," Altair huffs, offering Desmond a hand and nodding jerkily to the wooden plank where young Novices took their first Leap of Faith. Desmond takes a deep breath before accepting Altair's outstretched hand. Then he's running after Altair, flying over the edge…

…And, for a moment, he belongs.

…

It's a simple mistake, really- Desmond is used to running on the tar-and-shingle of the city, not the terracotta and sandstone and plaster of Jerusalem. So he slips, his foot going out underneath him when it doesn't quite find the purchase he was expecting. But the simple mistake sends him tumbling over the side of the roof and down into the dark alley below.

Altair is as quick as ever. He hops off the edge of the roof after the younger, catching Desmond's robe and pulling so that he can tuck the boy against his chest. Altair curls around him, so that the elder will take the worst of the damage from the fall, because Allah have mercy if Malik finds out Desmond's been hurt on his watch. The Dai of Jerusalem is as protective over any novice (sans Altair, because he's not technically a novice) that passes through his bureau as he was of his younger brother, and Altair likes to think that it's because he lost his brother that Malik is so defensive of them. And, because of that, Altair is certain Malik will all but kill him if his negligence is the reason another novice stumbles (or is carried) into the bureau injured.

As they hit the ground, Altair is able to process a few things very quickly. One, that they have managed to- miraculously- land in a pile of hay meant for horses. Two, that even though they did land in a pile of hay, the pile was thin and Altair's back still hits the stone-paved ground beneath, and there will be a _beautiful_ mosaic of bruises on his back and shoulders in a few hours. And three, that Desmond isn't nearly as heavy on top of him as a boy his age should be.

Then Desmond rolls off him in a way that spreads his weight out and doesn't at all hurt the man beneath him any more than he's already been hurt, and Altair has to remember that Desmond has been trained before, by his strange foreign "Compound", and he does actually know what he's doing. To a point. (Altair has to wonder if Desmond's "Compound" is in Rome or even further into Europe, because he has an English accent that vaguely reminds Altair quite a bit of a merchant from the British Isles that he had once spoken with, but the boy tans like an Armenian.) Now that he's able to get a good look at the boy, Altair does notice that the grey robes of a novice rest loosely on Desmond's form, which is odd because Desmond is pretty much finished growing and they should have been able to find robes for him that would fit him well. Altair wouldn't have even noticed it before had the boy not been right on top of him not moments ago, but Desmond was definitely too thin.

"_Fuck_. I'm so sorry, Altair. I didn't mean to- I mean, I just wasn't paying as much attention as I should have been. I'm _so_ sorry," Desmond babbled, but Altair waved it off as he sat up.

"It's no worry. A novice mistake from a novice in training." Desmond huffs and sulks, and Altair smiles and shakes his head. "It's a mistake I must have made a hundred times before I learned it, Desmond." There Altair goes, butchering the boy's name again. It was such an odd name, one that Altair isn't certain he'll ever get used to- which is slightly embarrassing, because Desmond never has any trouble with even the most complex names. "You will learn. I'm just glad you were not hurt in the process."

Desmond huffs, shaking his head and rubbing the back of his neck in the way that Altair recognizes as a nervous tick- Malik does the same sometimes, when he was especially tense, and Altair almost worries what habits Desmond might be picking up from the Dai. As the boy sits, awkward, Altair takes the time to stretch and make sure he hadn't actually hurt anything in the fall.

"I- uh. I didn't crush you, did I?" Desmond asks, eyeing Altair's wrinkled and straw-littered robes. "I know I can be pretty heavy at times." Altair shakes his head, and Desmond sighs in relief. He looks to be about to say something, before shouts echoes from an alley over. Desmond gets the wide-eyed, scared look, and Altair huffs in aggravation.

"C'mon," he whispers, standing and brushing the straw off his robes. There is probably some _in_ his robes, and goodness is he going to be itchy later, but he would worry about later, _later._ "We need to go."

Desmond really can climb and free-run with the best of them, when he is paying attention. He keeps up with Altair, step for step and stone for stone. It reminds Altair that Desmond isn't actually much younger than he. _He could have been me_, Altair thinks as he leaps the short gap between two buildings and Desmond follows by only a fraction of a second. He leads the other through the gap in the lattice and into Malik's garden, pushing him into the corner as soon as they are in and holding his own breath as the boots of guards run around the edge of the garden's walls. Under his breath, he thanks Malik for growing wisteria, despite its finicky nature, because the vines need the lattice over the roof of the garden and shield the little courtyard from prying eyes.

Exactly ninety seconds after the sound of the boots fades, the door to the garden from the bureau is thrown open to reveal a very miffed Malik.

Dinner is rice and broth, cooked by Malik because he refuses to let Altair anywhere near the cooking fire. The one-armed man may not be able to create anything extravagant, but simple fare is enough for him and the two assassins who eat with him because they have nowhere else to go. The silence that stretches between them is neither uncomfortable nor comfortable, and is only broken when Altair noticed Desmond pushing the food around in his bowl without really eating any of it.

"You need to eat," Altair says, waving the spoon in Desmond's direction. The boy shrugs, an awkward roll of his shoulders as he averts his eyes from both other men.

"I'm not hungry," he mumbles, and Malik can see Altair is ready to throttle the boy. He sits back and watches, though, not interfering, because this is the first time he's seen Altair show anything similar to _concern_ since Abbas tried to put a sword through his ribs. Well, concern that was not for Malik, because as much as Malik blamed Altair for his brother's death, Altair likely blamed himself two-fold. Such a thought was sobering, but it hardly stopped Malik from being the asshole he was nowadays.

"Regardless of whether or not you _think _you are hungry," Altair snaps, because he most certainly does not have the patience to deal with a petulant child, "you need to eat."

Desmond shrugs again, lips pressing into a fine line before he very tentatively takes a bite of his food. Malik supposes he should be insulted that the boy doesn't want to eat his cooking, but he feels nothing but relief. Altair might be stupid sometimes, but his observation is not wrong- Desmond is thin, too thin for a boy who works himself so hard every day. He should have muscle to match Altair's, _maybe_ a bit leaner. The boy has muscle, yes, but… he looks like a twig in comparison to his older counterpart.

And even when he is finished with his own food, Altair waits patiently for Desmond to finish his bowl before leaving the circle of cushions where they ate.

Malik washes the bowls with a careful hand, keeping part of his attention trained on Altair's and Desmond's soft arguing in the courtyard. Altair sounds… well, upset. Desmond just sounds indifferent. Malik isn't certain which he hates more.

"You need to take care of yourself better, Novice," Altair scolds, and Malik scoffs at the assassin's use of his favorite nickname.

"I take care of myself perfectly well, thank you very much," Desmond sasses back, a bit muffled, and Malik supposes he was either facing away from the door or disrobing, or both.

"Oh?" Altair questions, and Malik can imagine the raised-eyebrow, dubious expression on the man's face. "I had to force you to eat today."

"It was a one-time thing."

"You're practically skin and bones, Desmond. This cannot be healthy."

"I'm _fine_," Desmond insists, more a snarl than anything else, and Altair's eyebrow _twitches_. It's actually kind of funny, in the _he's about to kick someone's ass_ kind of way. But instead of punching the boy, Altair does something Malik had not been expecting.

He hugs Desmond. It's a careful thing, loose and easy and giving Desmond a way out but the boy _doesn't_. Malik can see the way the boy's shoulders begin to tremble and shake. It's a silent cry, without sobs or screams. It's just gasping breaths and quivering muscles. Altair's eye met Malik's, and the Dai realized that Altair had not the slightest idea what to do.

Malik turns and leaves the assassin to handle it.

"I miss my home," Desmond admits to the white fabric covering Altair's shoulder. "I miss Shaun and Rebecca and my dad. I miss the city and the shopping trips. _Fuck_, I miss the goddamn _humidity_, even though it made it fucking _miserable_." Altair is stroking Desmond's back, trying in his own, small, hesitant way, to comfort the boy. "I miss my home," Desmond finally says in the shakiest of voices, and Altair cannot know how it feels. Masyaf and Jerusalem, their mountains and their sands and their sun- they have _always_ been home to Altair.

He's not certain what he would do if he were torn away from it all, just like Desmond. He imagines it would be painful. He imagines he, too, would miss everything about it- his friends and his family, his Brothers, even things like the constant heat, things that made it difficult. He imagines he would be distraught as well.

But he still hasn't the slightest idea of how to comfort someone going through that. He hasn't the slightest idea of how to even begin helping Desmond forward. So he holds the boy until the tears and the shaking stops. He lets Desmond have the pillows, because the cots in the back of the shop are not kind to anyone who sleeps on them and Altair probably will not be resting tonight anyway.

It is very late when Altair steps warily into Malik's room above his store. He is almost dejected, skittish. Malik can see the wet spot on his shoulder from Desmond's tears. Altair looks Malik in his eyes, his own golden ones full of doubt and- Malik loathes seeing it, even in his rival- _fear_.

"I don't know what to do," Altair admits. Malik can understand; he doesn't believe Altair has been faced with the duty of comforting another since his father died and Abbas began to fall apart. Malik can understand why Altair would be scared; Abbas wasn't exactly the icon of a healed person.

But it doesn't mean that Altair's fear and self-doubt doesn't scare Malik. It frightens him, really. It frightens him quite a bit.

…

The first signs that things are very _wrong_ in the Brotherhood come like thieves in the night- or assassins. They're subtle, slow to build, but it gets to the point where they are impossible to ignore any longer. There is tension in the castle when Altair and Desmond return, successful, from Masyaf. Al Mualim is surprised by their return, even if he does not show it visibly of verbally. Altair can see it in the old man's eyes, the same shocked glint that he'd had when Altair had returned to them from the poison. It was the same look in the old man's eyes when Altair had tamed the eagle, the fierce, old, spiteful thing that even the Grandmaster himself had never been able to so much as touch.

But the Grandmaster is not the only one who shows signs of something amiss.

Ari climbs through Altair's window in the middle of the night, silent as the mouse Threm sometimes calls him. He is nervous, edgy, more so than usual, and he rushes to hug Altair the moment he acknowledges the young boy.

"You're back," Ari breathes into the front of the elder's robes. Altair can feel the younger Brother trembling as though _terrified_. He hasn't seen Ari like this since the last time he was almost discovered. "You're back and you're okay."

"Of course I am," Altair chides, softly pushing the kid's hood back to play with his hair. Ari came up to his chest now; he'd grown. "Are you okay?"

"I… don't know," Ari admits. He lets go of Altair's waist and takes a step back, eyes down as he runs his hand nervously though his hair. He follows Altair to the pillows, sitting down in the mound of fluff with the older assassin. He starts to explain all that has gone on since Altair was last in Masyaf- the Novices and Journeymen and even some of the older assassins have been acting strangely, he says, and he's starting to worry. Greatly. Threm has felt it, too, and they've been trying to protect each other, but…

"I'm scared, Altair," Ari whispers, eyes on the ceiling where Altair has scratched a number of notes. A crude drawing of Malik and a feather, Desmond and a word in English that Ari cannot read, a journal and the word _French_ scratched out beside it. He wonders idly how Altair even made those. "People who were at each other's throats not three days ago are suddenly eating together as friends. People who use to be friends suddenly won't so much as look at each other. I'm _scared_, Altair."

Altair is too. Loyalties run deep in the Brotherhood; when two are friends, it takes nothing short of betrayal to separate the two, and it is rare that they will add people to their group who were not there from the beginning. He and Abbas were the perfect example of the rise of friendships in the Brotherhood- and the fall. The changes should be and are disturbing, and Altair finds himself thinking to the journal he found in his most recent dip into the Temple- Robert de Sable in the last entry, talking about his _"fear of the demon Rashid had made from the fatherless boy_". _Rashid_, as though Robert had known the Grandmaster. He feels dread pool in his stomach as he connects the dots, but also a strange kind of relief, as though this had been something he'd been trying to get himself to believe for a long time.

He will get his assignment from Al Mualim in the morning and leave for Jerusalem immediately after. Malik must be told. They have work to do if they wish to find the root of this.

…

Desmond hits the hay behind Altair as softly as a man free-falling from a tower can manage, using the excess momentum to push himself forward into a sprint again. Angry voices shout from above.

"There are the assassins!"

"Catch them!"

"Do not let them escape!"

Even as guards and Templars are lowering their ladders, Desmond is following Altair up the next building- always following, always perfectly lagging, always in the same mindset. Their thoughts seem one in the same, Eagle and Eaglet: get away from the guards, lead them away from the civilians, lead them away from the Bureau and from Malik. Two more figures join their wild retreat, garbed in grey-and-white, moving the same but different. Threm is heavy, headstrong, physically capable, taking the most direct path over and across. Ari is quick and light and nimble, taking the path of least resistance that leads to the same goal.

But they are Journeymen, young and flagging, and they will have to either lose their pursuers soon or turn to face them. Desmond's skin tingles in anticipation of the latter- his blade has tasted blood once today, and it will revel in tasting it again.

The city disappears beneath them, until they are running more on ground and rock and stunted trees instead of buildings and stone and hardened plaster. Desmond feels himself channeling Connor and even Ezio a bit, ancestors of his that have yet to be born. Their memories are faint and fading, but they have left impressions that Desmond's muscles do and will always remember. They guide his feet over terrain more dangerous than even the heights of the city.

The two younger Journeymen are not so blessed; Threm trips over what might be a rock or a dip in the ground, sprawling and skidding into the dirt. Ari is the first to backtrack, then Desmond, then Altair. Weapons are readied even as Threm is pulled to his feet.

They will make their stand here.

Desmond and Altair are mirrors, curved swords and bare hidden blades, but Ari and Threm are opposites. Ari is dual daggers, sharp and wicked and as many as Ari has hidden compartments in his robes. Threm is a long, straight broadsword, double edged and heavy and as effective on the battlefield as a scythe is through grain. In a fight, Threm will draw the most attention, loud and wild and visibly dangerous. Ari, however, is but a ghost in the shadows of the enemies; if Desmond wasn't certain the boy was there, he wouldn't have even known until the first fell- or later.

And then the guards are upon them. Not all of them have followed from the city, but there are enough that even four carefully-trained assassins will have difficulty. Altair and Desmond are reflections of one another, moving so perfectly in sync that there are times they are literally back-to-back. Altair finds it odd, but complimenting, that Desmond's style so closely mimics his own; Ari and Threm, when they have attention to spare, find it beautiful, like sibling hawks tag-teaming a hunt. Desmond hardly even notices, too caught up in the blood pounding in his ears, the adrenaline coursing through his veins, the thrill of the fight.

A million memories in the Animus failed to do this justice. True fighting is fear and excitement in a single moment, a deadly dance of metal and instinct and years of training so well-learned that it is muscle-memory. It's terrifying- and exhilarating. Desmond can see why some might become addicted to the feeling. He, on the other hand, cannot see himself becoming such a monster- the very smell of blood, and he can feel his stomach turning over on itself.

And in a single moment, it's done. Ari has the last guard prone on the ground, straddling the armored man's waist, daggers crossed at the throat but not biting. Altair raises a single brow, but Desmond can see the way the youngest smirks from his profile.

"I know this one," Ari hisses, pushing a single blade until it draws a red line across the guard's neck. The guard whimpers, in pain and in fear. "A Templar lackey- he will talk. Withhold the white powder long enough and he will talk."

Desmond feels a distinct shiver of fear up his spine.

…

Ari would have made a good addition to Masyaf's dungeons, Desmond decides as he watches the boy circle the captured guard, tied to a chair. They're in an abandoned house in one of the more run-down portions of the city- screams of pain and terror are something of a normal occurrence. Desmond himself is sitting out of sight, a stack of paper and a quill at the ready to take notes, because this is Ari's show, and- to be honest- Desmond doesn't think any other of their little group could run it. Ari has no weapons in his hands, no whips or splinters of wood, and yet the guard they captured is already trembling in terror.

After a few moments of tension-building, the questions start. Ari is ever-calm, never violent with the man, even when he does not answer the questions. When he doesn't answer, Ari gets this little petulant frown. He never strikes the man. Instead, his fingers will crawl up an arm, a leg, the guard's _neck_, then stop, hovering over a pressure point that will no doubt bring great agony. But it's a tempered kind of agony, the kind that the guard will not pass out from, but harsh enough to be a warning. After the first two or three insubordinations and following punishments, the guard did not withhold a thing.

Desmond makes a mental note never to get on Ari's bad side, lest he not live to see the dawn.

The information they find is troubling to Ari, but nothing new to Desmond- he has, after all, seen what is to come through the Animus. Rashid's betrayal no doubt strikes the youngest hard, though, and Desmond makes sure to at least act as though he is somewhat effected as he helps to comfort the boy.

…

It's not the first time Altair has stumbled in injured, but it is the first time Malik has seen him this bad.

The bells had been ringing for an hour and a half as the guards scrambled to catch the white shadow. Even after they stopped, it was another hour before Altair came falling through the hole in the lattice. His loud entrance wakes Desmond and grabs Malik's attention at the same time. Malik first brushes him off as being clumsy.

Until he doesn't get back up. Malik rushes over to the prone assassin, Desmond close behind, and Malik stumbles a bit at the sight of all the blood. It couldn't all be Altair's, but there were a number of cuts and gashes and even an arrow buried deep in the assassin's shoulder. Malik tries to haul Altair up from one side, and Desmond helps on the other, and together they drag the half-awake man into the back room. Altair's heart is a rabbit's, too quick and too light and Malik is simply relieved that it is still beating.

It takes a few moments to divulge Altair of his robes, but once he is out of them, Malik can take in how bad the assassin's injuries really are. It's not as bad as he first assumed, but Altair is more awake and aware now, and it will make it both easier and more difficult; he was more liable to listen, but also more tense. Malik works on the smaller injuries first, ignoring the arrow in Altair's shoulder until blood from it drips into whatever he is working on. Even then, he only pays it enough attention to wipe the blood away. Desmond helps as much as he can, and together they patch Altair up until the arrow is the only wound left.

"I will have to remove this," Malik says, both to Desmond and to Altair. The Eaglet takes the hint quickly, locking his arms around Altair in a way that will restrain the older assassin. It's not until Malik breaks off the shaft of the arrow and prepares to remove it that Altair braces for the pain. The low groan Altair lets out is pained and twists Malik's heart in an uncomfortable kind of way, but he presses on until the rhombic metal tip is out. Desmond catches it as he tosses it aside, a cat's attention on a shiny object, but Malik's attention is on putting salve on the wound the arrowhead left behind and bandaging it up.

It is only when he is finished, washing his hand of Altair's blood, that he begins to wonder just how dangerous the situation Altair was in. He finds his hand trembling in the pink water as he realizes just how close the assassin just came to dying.

Malik hopes it was worth it.

With Altair stable and resting, Malik turns his mind back to comparing de Sable's journal to the notes Desmond took, hoping to purge the morbid thoughts from his mind. It does, only to fill the space left behind with even more devastating facts. Malik almost does not wish to believe the information laid out before his eyes, but both written accounts and the rumors Threm has brought him from scouring the city, piled on top of the doubts and fears that have plagues Malik for months now, all point to a single, terrible truth.

Al Mualim has betrayed them. Not just them, but the Brotherhood as a whole. He has consorted with Templars and conspired to cage the minds of not just his Brothers, but of every human being in the known world. And, from the text, Desmond and Altair and Malik may have given him the tools to do so: not just one Piece of Eden now, but two.

_But the one Desmond gave him will not work for him_, Malik thinks, remembering Altair's account of the confrontation between the Eaglet and the Mentor. Without the power of the second Piece, they may yet have a chance. Malik goes to tell Desmond the news, only to pause in the entrance of the back room.

Altair is gone. The blankets are thrown off the bed, the chest thrown open and the contents littering the floor, as though Altair left in a hurry.

"He's pursuing Robert de Sable," Desmond informs from behind Malik, resting against the wall casually, his arms crossed across his chest. "He knows as much as you and I and Threm and Ari. He said to tell you he will meet us in Masyaf. '_Ride with caution.'_ He said you'd know what it meant."

Malik pauses, but nods slowly. Of course Altair would want to hear it from the horse's mouth, but he does not want Malik to squander his time in his absence, and neither would Malik agree to sitting on his hand, doing nothing. 'Ride with caution': Altair's way of saying, "Ride slowly, and I will catch up." With a clenched fist, Malik orders Desmond and the two Journeymen to prepare for travel.

It will be a long week's ride to Masyaf.

…

The fortress of Masyaf was designed by assassins. Its outer walls, though appearing smooth and well-kept, are littered with well-disguised niches and hand-holds. Hidden tunnels and passages and streets run to and fro, so little-known that only those who have lived in the fortress for some time even know they exist, and even then they might get lost.

The fortress of Masyaf was designed by assassins, and therefore is well-defended against them. Desmond leads the group on the difficult climb over the walls and onto the roves of the lowest tier. Even in the mid-day sun, when most are inside to hide from the heat, it is unusually quiet. Desmond feels anxiety pool in his stomach. Even though he has walked this future before, even though he knows that his presence will only tip the scales in favor of Altair and his impending victory, he can feel the anxiety coil and curl in his stomach like a snake, ready to strike at a moment's notice.

Desmond hopes that the anxiety attack he knows he's going to have waits until after the deed is done.

Altair joins them at the front of the gates with another group of assassins not affected by the Apple. Altair himself is dirty and scraped and a bit bloody, and his eyes are vague and distant until Malik snaps him out of his thoughts.

"How are we taking the fortress?" Altair blinks twice, slowly, then stares up at the main gate. The bridge is up, but the gate is open.

"Bring down the bridge," he orders. "Two of you break the chains at the top. Be loud, draw your Brothers' attention, but do your best not to kill them. Their minds are addled, but it is not their fault. They do not deserve death for this, not if we can free them."

"And what will you be doing?" Desmond asks- rhetorically, because he already knows what Altair is planning, but he has to ask anyway. Altair smiles darkly, eyes shadowed by his hood, all of giving him a dangerous appearance.

"I am finding Rashid."

…

The anxiety attack Desmond has been brewing on hits the night after the fall of Rashid, and it hits with all the power of the time it has been left to wind up. It comes out of nowhere. He's in his room in the castle, puttering around and organizing his things, when the force of it knocks him to his knees. All the fear, all the anxiety and the stress that has been building in Desmond's chest since his eyes momentarily fluttered open in the pseudo-darkness of the Temple of Solomon bursts forth like water when a dam breaks, and Desmond is an unfortunate house caught in the deluge, forced to ride out the storm as it sweeps him up.

He doesn't want to come to terms with the fact that he's stuck in this time, but he doesn't have any choice in the matter. Memories of Shaun and Rebecca and his dad and the Animus, good times and bad, come back to him. He can remember all the times they fought over stupid things, like the yogurt in the fridge, or the last chocolate bar, or whether or not they needed icecream. He remembers the first and only time Shaun hugged him, soft and caring because he'd just spent the last thirty minutes trying to figure out whether he was in Florence or Masyaf or the safe-house. He remembers the time Becca stood up against Miles Senior for him. He remembers the last time he hugged his father.

For a moment, he's home.

When he comes back to reality, Malik and Altair are both kneeling in front of him, twin looks of concern on their faces. Desmond trembles and shakes as he reaches forward to pull both of them into a tight hug, resting his head on Altair's shoulder even as he presses his nose into the fabric of Malik's robes.

"My Brothers," he mumbles, trying to calm himself through the aftershocks of his panic attack. Altair's arms wind around his waist as Malik tenderly pushes his hood back to pet his hair. "_My Brothers_," he says again, because this is his time now. He doesn't have a choice. This is his time now, his Brothers and his Creed.

And he will stand beside them to the end.


End file.
